The Speculist

Chapter Four

Part I

Chapter Four

"Hello," Pasha said again. He approached them. Cheerful as ever, but the smile looked strained.

"Hello, Reuben; hello, Ksenia. Excuse me, please, I do not mean to interrupt."

Ksenia stepped just a little to one side, and let go of Reuben’s hands.

"Not at all," Reuben said. "We weren’t expecting you so soon."

"Yes, I see that." Pasha eyed his sister. His smile looked even more strained.

"I finish my work sooner than expected. I hope you have enjoyed museums?"

"I did. But I think it was all pretty boring for Ksenia."

"No, no," she protested. She met her brother’s eyes for a moment and looked away.

Pasha laughed, not in a pleasant way.

"You see?" he said. "Not so bored. Ksenia is good at finding something to do."

No one said anything for a moment. Pasha looked at them both, still smiling, but abandoning any pretense of being cheerful or good-natured. Instead, he seemed tremendously satisfied, as though coming upon them as he did proved something, or gave him some advantage. His eyes were hard and cold.

Ksenia broke the silence.

"What shall we do now?" she said. Her tone was lighthearted.

"We go now," Pasha answered. "Too early for dinner, so I take you for drink. Yes, Reuben?"

Reuben was inclined to say no, but he wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Ksenia just yet.

"Sounds good," he said. "Where shall we go?"

"I know good place, not far from here." He turned to Ksenia. "Come, it will be good time with our American friend, no?"

Ksenia once again took Reuben’s hand.

"Yes, Pasha," she said. "It will be good time."

They made their way out of the Cosmos Pavilion and into what was now, by anyone’s definition, a full-blown snow shower.

"So Reuben," said Pasha, "how you like this weather in Moscow?"

"I was just telling Ksenia how much I love snow."

"Yes? There is good skiing in US. Do you ski?"

"A little. I used to live in Denver, near some excellent skiing."

Pasha slowed down, apparently taking a keen interest in this answer.

"WorldConneX is in Denver, yes? What you do at WorldConneX?"

"I’m in marketing. I manage several projects." Reuben recognized an opening. "What about you, Pasha? Where do you work?"

Pasha eyed his sister again.

"Ksenia did not tell you?" he asked.

"No, she never mentioned it."

He stopped and looked at her. She met his gaze with some defiance.

Pasha turned back to Reuben.

"I work at Mezh Hotel, same as Ksenia. I found job for her at Fortuna Casino."

"But you don’t work in the casino, do you? I’ve never seen you there."

Pasha glanced Ksenia’s way once again, but whatever it was he was looking for, he wasn’t finding it.

"Oh, no. Not in Casino."

"So what do you do?"

Pasha considered this question for a moment, and then laughed the unpleasant laugh again.

"I also manage some different projects. Is nice to be business man, no?"

Reuben shrugged.

"Sure," he said.

They continued walking, past the fountain with the golden girls and back towards the Space Obelisk. Reuben noted that the crowd at the VDNKh had grown throughout the course of the afternoon. A row of makeshift kiosks was being set up along the walkway leading out of (or into) the exhibition. The place was turning into a small flea market, with men and women setting out clothing, trinkets, and books. Many of the kiosks were not much more than card tables containing a box or two of clearly pirated audio cassettes, with a ghetto blaster providing a sample of the available merchandise. Almost all of the music was Russian.

They passed a girl of about 15 holding a up a white kitten. Next to her stood a boy of eight or nine with his small arms wrapped around an unwieldy cardboard box. Reuben remembered seeing something like this in front of the Kievskaya train station a few days before. That time it had been just one person, a middle-aged woman, holding up a puppy with a covered box on the sidewalk in front of her.

"What are they doing?" he asked.

Pasha ignored the question.

"They look for…home for cats," Ksenia answered. "Who will take a cat?"

"I see," said Reuben. "Where do they get them?"

Ksenia glanced at Reuben, not sure whether he was joking. She treated him to a reprise of the look of sympathetic condescension that she had offered earlier on the subject of snow.

"In Russia, we get little cats from big cats," she said.

Pasha said something to Ksenia in Russian. They both laughed. The mood lightened.

They proceeded out of the VDNKh, past the Space Obelisk, and back to the approximate place where Pasha had dropped them earlier.

"Wait here; I come back with car," said Pasha, and continued up the street on foot.

"So," Reuben said, guiding Ksenia a couple of steps back from the edge of the street. "I think I get it. The kids we saw have a cat at home who gave birth to a litter of kittens. They’ve weaned the kittens and are now here giving them to anyone who will take them."

"Yes, Reuben. I am sorry. I don’t mean to joke at you."

"Don’t worry," he said. "I’m just glad that Pasha cheered up."

"Yes. Again, I am sorry."

"Never mind that," he said. "But he did pick a hell of a time to re-appear, didn’t he?"

Ksenia smiled.

"Yes. Next time, we go without Pasha." She stepped back a little. "But today we will try to keep him ‘cheered up," okay?"

"Okay," he said. "But I hope I get to see you again soon."

She nodded.

The Lada appeared at the curb. Reuben and Ksenia climbed in.

The drive along Prospekt Mira (Peace Avenue, Ksenia told Reuben) and towards Pasha’s undisclosed "good place" was much like the earlier trip. Pasha was affable and talkative, as before. Ksenia seemed to be paying close attention to where they were going, although this time the two of them did not confer on the subject. It was a meandering route, quickly straying from the main street into a run-down, industrial section of the city. The streets narrowed; on either side of them loomed low edifices of brown and gray, many without windows.

At length, they arrived at a crumbling four-story building that sat a little way off the street. Between the street and the building was a yard enclosed by a chain-link fence. Within the perimeter of the fence, there were several mounds that Reuben assumed were pieces of machinery or piles of construction materials. But he couldn’t be sure, because they were carefully covered with tarps, which were by now mostly covered with snow.

Pasha drove the Lada to the gate and flashed his headlights. A moment later, a hulk of a man appeared wearing a shabby black coat and fur hat. He stared at the car for a moment and, registering some minimal recognition, proceeded to open the gate.

Ksenia said something in Russian. Whatever it was, Pasha ignored it. He drove them into the yard and stopped the car not far from what appeared to be the building’s back door. Reuben noted that there were a few other cars parked there, most of them foreign models.

"All right," he said cheerfully enough, switching off the ignition. "Here we are."

"Great, Pasha," said Reuben. "But where exactly are we?"

Pasha looked at the building and seemed to think about his answer for a moment.

"Is club," he finally said. "Is private club."

"Reuben," said Ksenia, "we do not go here if you don’t want to go. Pasha will take us where we like." Her eyes met those of her brother, and this time there was no mistaking her look of defiance. Pasha looked away.

Reuben admired Ksenia’s strength, but he doubted what she said was true. Glancing up at the rear view mirror, he could see that the giant had already closed the gate behind them. And he had been joined by two others, beefy guys of about the same size. One of them held a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag.

In this light and with the snow, it was hard to be sure, but Reuben suddenly had a very strong suspicion.

"Thanks, Ksenia," he said. "Pasha, if you don’t mind, I think I would prefer not to visit your club today. Could we go someplace else, maybe back to the Ukraina? I’d like to try the bar there."

"Yes," said Pasha, "of course. We go back to Ukraina and try bar there. But first, you must come in with me and have drink."

Ksenia said something in Russian, which Pasha ignored.

"I think I’d rather not, Pasha. Not today."

Pasha sighed and then turned to face them.

"I have friends here who want to see you. I promise them I take you here for them to meet. You must not refuse. Is very big insult if you refuse." He spoke coldly, no longer bothering to smile.

Reuben was suddenly angry at himself. If the kid’s car and phone had been red flags, his job at the Mezh had been more like 12-foot high sign reading CAUTION.

Distracted, he thought. By a woman.

"All right," said Reuben. "Let me be clear. I don’t want to go into your club. But if I refuse, your friends back there are going to persuade me otherwise, is that right?"

Pasha smiled.

"You understand very well," he said.

Reuben turned to Ksenia.

"I’m to understand that you knew nothing about this?" he asked.

Ksenia’s wide eyes were moist with tears. Her voice trembled with rage.

"I did not know," she said.

Pasha laughed.

"She thinks I serve as driver for her and [expletive]" — a Russian word Reuben could not understand, but guessed the meaning of — "because I care so much. She is stupid girl."

"Right," said Reuben. "Stupid. But she still has nothing to do with any of this."

Pasha looked puzzled. He looked at Ksenia for a moment.

"What you mean?"

"Don’t be an idiot. She’s your sister."

Pasha said nothing.

"None of this involves her, Pasha. Whoever is in that building, they want to see me, not Ksenia."

"So?"

"So let her go. Now. Go tell your friends back there to open the gate and let her leave, on foot."

He snorted.

"Why should I?"

"Because you don’t care what they do to me, but you don’t have any reason to expose her to them. These are dangerous people, aren’t they, Pasha?"

Pasha said nothing.

Ksenia started to say something in Russian, but Pasha shushed her again.

"Besides," said Reuben, "it will be much easier if you do it this way. I’ll go willingly, as soon as she has been allowed to leave. I won’t put up any kind of fight."

"You only get hurt worse if you do," said Pasha, but Reuben could see he was wavering. He glanced again at the rear view mirror. The three of them were still standing there, staring at the parked car. There wasn’t much time.

"Just go back there now, and tell them that you’ve decided you don’t want the girl here, and you’re sending her away. I’ll watch through the mirror. As soon as the gate is open, I’ll send Ksenia. You make sure she gets out safely, and then I’ll go in with you."

Pasha glowered at Reuben. Then he sighed and opened his door.

"You are pretty smart, Reuben. You still be smart and don’t do anything stupid, okay?"

He looked at his sister with disgust and said something harsh to her in Russian. She didn’t respond.

Reuben gave a thought as to how easy it would be to smash Pasha’s nose right into his sneering face. He could have this punk out of the game before he knew what hit him. The real trouble would be the three goons behind them. Could he take them all? He was unarmed. He couldn’t risk it.

Pasha stepped out of the car and trudged across the yard towards the gate. Reuben watched him through the rear view menu.

"Reuben, I don’t want to — " she started.

"No," he interrupted. "There’s no time. Listen carefully. You get out of here as quickly as you can." He glanced at his watch. "I want you to meet me at the newspaper kiosk in front of the Kievskaya train station in one hour. If I’m not there, I need you to call someone for me."

He glanced up. Pasha was talking to the three men. They were passing the bottle around; one of them took a drink. They were laughing.

"Yes, I understand."

He told her the phone number. She repeated it.

"Good," he said. "Ask for Sergei. Tell him who you are and everything that happened today. Tell him where I am as best you can. Don’t agree to meet him in person, and don’t let anyone know you spoke to him. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Reuben."

The man in black had swung the gate open. Pasha waved at the car.

"The main thing is for you to get out of here safely. Go now."

"Reuben, I am so sorry." She was trembling.

"Never mind that," he said. "This will probably be fine. These guys just want to talk to me. But if something happens…you’re the only person who can help me now. Don’t let me down."

Pasha waved again and called out. The guy with the bottle shouted something at the car, to the great amusement of the other two.

"Don’t be afraid. Just do what you have to do."

She let go of his hand.

"Yes," she answered, her voice clear and strong.

She had stopped trembling. Their eyes met for a moment.

"Go on," he said.

"See you again," she said.

She opened the car door and walked out into the snowy evening. Reuben watched as she strode past Pasha and the thugs. Her brother gave her a slight nod. If there was any response, Reuben couldn’t see it from where he sat. The other men said nothing to her, and didn’t seem to pay her much attention. After she passed through the gate, the guy in black closed it behind her.

Pasha walked back to the car. Reuben had already stepped out. The younger man walked past without looking at him or saying a word. Reuben fell in line obediently. They walked up the steps, where Pasha stopped at the door to check it. Locked. He pushed the buzzer, and they waited. A short while later, the door swung open.

It was dark and smoky inside. Reuben could see that they were in a hallway, at the foot of a staircase. The floor, the walls, and the stairs all seemed to be made from the same batch of crumbling gray concrete. He looked closely at the man who opened the door. He was tall and fat, dressed in an ill-fitting double-breasted suit.

Pasha and the Bad Suit had a brief and surly exchange of words. After asking Pasha what must have been the Standard Questions, he turned and made his lumbering way back up the stairs. Pasha sighed with exasperation, and lit a cigarette. The two men stood at the foot of the stairs for several minutes before the Suit returned.

He descended about halfway and then stopped and gestured back towards the top of the staircase. Pasha started up, with Reuben following. The Suit allowed Pasha to pass, but stopped Reuben in his tracks. He then proceeded to subject Reuben to a rough and thorough frisking. It went on much longer than necessary, and ended with the man giving Reuben a swat on the backside.

"Nice club you got here, Pasha," Reuben said, continuing up the stairs. "I’m still kind of new in town. Should I have tipped him?"

"Shut up," Pasha hissed at him.

Reuben said nothing more. They reached the top of the stairs, where suddenly the floor was carpeted, and the walls paneled with dark wood. Two high-backed red leather chairs lined the hallway, which led to a pair of double doors. Above the chairs were brass light fixtures with clouded glass shades in the shape of tulips; between the lamps was mounted a large painting, a gaudy mountainous landscape. They continued down the hall and through the double doors. The room they entered was designed for more of the same effect. It was a parlor, with white marble floors covered with intricate Oriental rugs. There were more paintings, more brass light fixtures. The furniture was dark and solid and heavy. There was a snooker table; there were bookcases. There was an enormous fireplace at the far end of the room. A sofa and several chairs were gathered around it.

Reuben followed as Pasha walked purposefully towards the small group of men seated around the fire. There were two men that Reuben had never seen before, but three that he recognized immediately.

"Hello, gentlemen," said Pasha, sounding quite pleased with himself. "May I present to you Meester Reuben Stone of the United States of America."

They turned and looked at Reuben. Now it was obvious: he had seen two of the guys at the gate before. And now, seated in front of the fire were two men Reuben had never seen before, along with the Czar and Comrades Mikhail Barishnikov and Boris Badinov.

Must be a slow night over at the Café Vienna, Reuben thought.

The Czar muttered something in Russian.

"Come here," said Barishnikov.

Reuben approached the Czar, assuming that Barishnikov was acting as interpreter.

"How do you do," he said to the Czar. Barishnikov translated.

"You must be fucking crazy," came the reply. "Who the fuck are you, and why the fuck are you here?"

Reuben eyed Barishnikov, which would be a breach of protocol even under more civilized circumstances.

"Just translate," he said. "I can do without the embellishments."

A brutal, crushing blow to the lower back brought Reuben to his knees. He struggled to catch his breath. The room went wobbly for a moment, and he thought he might vomit. He looked back and saw that the blow had come not from Pasha, who was nonetheless pleased with it, but rather from one of the men he had never seen before. He was a tall and lanky, cross-eyed fellow wearing a powder blue suit. He looked like a stork. He was holding some kind of rod; maybe it was a riding crop. This wasn’t one of the foot soldiers from the Café Vienna. Reuben would have remembered seeing him before.

"You will address only the man in charge," said Barishnikov.

"I understand," Reuben gasped.

The Czar took a sip from his oversized brandy snifter.

"Whom do you represent?" he asked, through the translator.

"I’m with WorldConneX, an American telephone company."

The Czar said something to the group, all of whom laughed in response.

"Don’t be stupid and don’t waste my time. Who has sent a black savage like yourself to spy on us? What is your interest in us?"

"Sir, please understand me," Reuben said. "No one has sent me to spy on you."

The Czar’s eyes grew narrow. He asked Pasha something. Pasha responded with a quick nyet.

"This is not credible. Do not deny that you have been performing surveillance on us for some time."

Reuben knew that the correct answer was to keep his cover: he should say that he was never spying; he just liked hanging out in the Vienna. Then they could beat up on him until he admitted it. Or died.

"I don’t deny it."

Screw the cover. He wasn’t trying to keep the world safe for democracy any more. He worked for the phone company.

The Czar looked surprised at this admission. The he grew visibly angry, his face reddening, his eyes growing darker and more narrow.

"Then why have you done this?" he demanded.

"It’s hard to say."

"I will be much more difficult for you if you do not say" the Czar said coldly.

"I guess it was sort of a hobby."

This statement took a while for Barishnikov to translate and, once translated, its meaning took a moment to sink in with the Czar. This time the blow came from above, the stork whacking Reuben hard across his shoulders. He fell the rest of the way forward, his hands not finding their place fast enough to avoid the impact when he landed forehead first on a Persian rug, which provided very little padding against the marble beneath.

Posted by Phil at March 1, 2004 12:00 AM | TrackBack